The Tale of Teresa Walsch
by loudsilencex
Summary: Which involves a letter, an apprenticeship, a V6 racing engine and several arguments about music, cheeseburgers and JARVIS's loyalties. Movie!verse, takes place somewhere between IM1 and IM2. Eventual Tony/Pepper.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you may recognize, for they (unfortunately) belong to Marvel/Paramount. **

**Author's Note: Hey there! Welcome to my first Iron Man fanfic. Please feel free to peruse, dissect, and enjoy! I am open to any constructive criticism. (: **

**One;**

"Teresa, are you alright?"

I hated that question. After the Incident, that's all people would ask me. Are you alright? Are you okay? How are you coping? I wanted to throw something and scream at them. _Do you think that I'm alright? Do you really think so?_

The woman who addressed me was pleasant. She was dressed pleasantly, her voice was pleasant, and she almost always had a pleasant smile on her face. She was a caseworker, a woman whose job was to be pleasant. She smiled sympathetically at me and placed a hand on my knee.

"Would you like something to drink?"

I ignored her and stared stolidly out the window. There were kids playing outside on their lawn across the street. How could they be so happy when my world was crumbling down around me?

The caseworker sighed and stood up, her clunky heels making loud thumps on the hardwood floor. "Teresa, you must listen to me for at least ten minutes. Can you grant me that? Just ten minutes, and then I'll leave you alone."

I flicked my gaze over to her and nodded. _Talk fast_.

"You are a minor," she stated, and I raised my eyebrows. _Really? I wasn't aware._ "And that means we must either find a family member for you to stay with or a foster home. In the event that we cannot find a family member, we will place you in a suitable home. Do you have any known relatives that might take you in?"

My mind was whirring. There were no relatives here in Boston that I knew of. My mother - a large seam seemed to open in my heart and I nearly bent over in pain - didn't have any siblings and her parents are long gone. Maybe her parents had some sort of siblings, but for all I knew they could be living in Alaska or something. And my father, ha, that deadbeat prick. I didn't even know him, so that wasn't an option.

"By your silence I'm assuming that you don't know of anyone," said the caseworker, "so we must put you in a foster home."

_Wonderful._

"Your mother's funeral will take place on the fifth…"

At this point, I tuned her out. I returned my gaze to the window and saw that the children across the street had gone inside. They were probably being served lemonade by their mother, told they were loved and asked if they had a good time.

Tears stung my eyes and I fought desperately against them. _Not here. Do _not_ show weakness._

"Teresa?" The caseworker peered concernedly at me. "Do you need a moment?"

I stood abruptly and walked out of the living room. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could and disappeared into my room, where peace and quiet prevailed and where prying questions and sympathy were not allowed.

I threw myself onto my bed and buried my face into my pillow. The tears finally streamed from my eyes and I snuffled into my pillow.

It had only been a week, but it felt like three months. A flurry of caseworkers, grief coaches, and sympathetic friends and teachers had filled that week. All I wanted was a time to grieve, alone, without anyone bothering me. I wanted time to brood over my guilt.

Another thing I hated was the phrase, "It's not your fault." That only worked in _Good Will Hunting_ and I didn't have the arms of Robin Williams to fall and cry into. It was my fault, it always will be my fault, and there was nothing to change that. If I hadn't argued with my mother over attending M.I.T. in the fall, she would've been paying attention and would've seen that driver hurtling towards us at ninety miles an hour. And if she had seen that drunken son of bitch, she could've swerved out of the way and she would still be here.

I clutched my bedspread in both fists and allowed my body to calm down. I shook and sniffed and my nose was running like a marathon runner. I sat up, quivering, and snatched the box of tissues off the nightstand. I quickly mopped myself up, blew my nose and winced as my ribs shot pins-and-needles pain through my side.

There was a sharp rap on the door. "Terry, honey? You in there?"

I stood and threw the door open to my best friend, Paulie. "I'm surprised the caseworker let you in," I said sullenly.

Paulie ignored me and simply wrapped his huge arms around me. I snuggled my face into the warm crook of his neck and breathed in; his cologne alone was enough to calm me down. Paulie had been my best friend for years - he put up with all my quirkiness.

"How's my favorite genius?" he asked, gently settling onto the bed and placing me beside him. He brushed some brown hair away from my eyes. "How's your ribcage?"

In the accident, I had four cracked ribs and a sprained wrist. How I had gotten away with those meaningless injuries and my mother lost her life only added to my guilt.

"Adequate for survival," I mumbled. I leaned against him. "They're going to put me in a foster home."

"Oh, dear." He kissed the top of my head. "You don't have any other relatives?"

"Nope." I glanced around my room and saw Gwen, my little robotic pal. She was my first invention, a tiny, mobile WALL-E look alike who helped keep my room clean and kept my homework neat, since I have a habit of spilling various liquids over important documents.

"Hi, Gwen," greeted Paulie, just to make me chuckle.

The little robot beeped and closed her eyes happily.

"Hey!" said Paulie suddenly with such enthusiasm it startled me and Gwen. "Why don't you come and live with me? My 'rents won't mind! Since Jonas moved out, you can have his room."

I straightened, brightened by this possibility. Moving in with my best friend would probably be the best thing that could happen to me at that point in my life, and his family would definitely help me move out of the depressive hole I was currently digging myself into. In about five seconds, I had made my decision and we were racing down to tell the caseworker.

"Forget about the foster home," I said, "I'm going to move in with Paul Angello's family."

The caseworker appeared quite shocked that I was speaking to her, since I hadn't in all the time I knew her. "Well, I…suppose that can be arranged."

"Awesome," I replied, "do I have to sign anything? Do Paulie's parents have to sign anything?"

The caseworker looked through her paperwork, mumbling to herself. I caught snippets of words, like "time," and "paperwork," and "background checks." She took several sheets of paper out of the pile she had on the table and handed them to Paulie.

"I'm going to have to meet your family," she said, "and talk to them about this. But for right now I think that it would be good for Teresa to be away from here."

I stiffened. I didn't want to be taken away from my home, even though staying over at Paulie's would be nice. This was the last place I had spent time with my mother before the accident, when things were good. I didn't want to leave Gwen or my other inventions for anyone to take a look at.

"Terry." Paulie's deep voice had found its way to my ear. "Pack a bag and I'll take you home, okay? It'll only be for a few nights, and then we'll come back for the rest of your stuff. Cool?"

I nodded, feeling like a robot. I walked slowly back up the stairs, my legs moving on their own accord. My torso burned from the activity, and I wished that I could have some more of those painkillers that the doctors prescribed. I reached my room and walked dazedly in, trying to remember where I put a travel bag.

"Gwen," I said, and the little robot perked up, "do you know where my travel bag is?"

She made a series of beeps and pointed a square finger at the closet.

"Of course. Thanks, bud." I opened the door and reached for the red and gold duffel bag at the top of the shelf.

I began shoving anything I could find into the bag. A change of clothes, underwear, a bra, socks and shoes. I grabbed my iPod, my sketchbook and a notebook where I kept my designs and notes, and I took Gwen's traveling case out from under my desk.

(You must understand that Gwen is about as big as a grown man's fist. I had to design her small, because my mother would have a heart attack if something too big went whizzing around the house all the time. And, this way, Gwen could stay in my room and not be so much of a hassle.)

"Do you mind?" I asked her, opening the case. She beeped, but didn't look offended, and I picked her up. "See you in a few. Sleep, why don't you?"

She beeped twice, waved her hands in farewell, and then folded into a tiny box.

I placed her into the case and closed it. I slung the duffel bag over my shoulder and then remembered my skateboard. It was specially designed from a skate shop in the city; it had my name, graffiti-style on the top in funky colors, and it rolled beautifully over the pavement. I didn't really use it for tricks; it was more of a transportation device until I got my own car. But after the accident, I don't think I'll ever get into another car.

With my skateboard under one arm and Gwen's traveling case in the other, I took one last look at my room. I sighed; I would be back here soon enough, and that's when I'd worry about the waterworks. I shut the door and thumped down the stairs.

"Ready?" asked Paulie, and I nodded. He took the duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder.

I waved a half-hearted goodbye to the caseworker, who followed us out and locked the door behind her. She went in one direction, and we went in the other.

"My mom's going to be so happy to have another girl in the house," Paulie was saying, "after Jonas moved out, it was me and dad against her. One less boy, but still…"

By the way he was rambling, I knew he was just trying to fill up the silence. Our silences weren't _usually_ awkward, but after the accident and my tendency to randomly burst into tears, he tried very hard not to let silence fall between us. I guess that's good of him, but after a while, it got annoying.

"Hey, Paulie," I interrupted his babbling about the Red Sox, "shush."

He smiled. "Is my chattering too much for you?"

"Yes." I dropped my skateboard and put one foot on it. I pushed off and glided past him, not going too fast so that he could keep up.

We traveled quietly from then on, Paulie respecting my request to be quiet. All I could hear was the rumble of my skateboard wheels on the cement and my thoughts. _Your fault, your fault, _they seemed to sing, _all your fault._

I pushed the nuisances aside and managed to smile when we arrived at Paulie's house. I always liked his house because it was like mine: warm, friendly, open. His mother and father were two of the nicest people in the entire world, and although I haven't talked to Jonas in quite some time, I knew him when I was a kid and he was just as nice as the rest of his family.

"Mom?" he called when he unlocked the door and we headed inside, "You home?"

"In the kitchen, hun," his mother called back. "Is that an extra pair of feet I hear? Could that be Teresa?"

"Hi, Mrs. Angello," I said quietly when I got to the kitchen door, "how's it going?"

I was ready for it, but when she flashed that full-on sympathetic expression at me, I had to fight back the tidal wave of emotion that crashed over me. I stiffened, stood up straight and allowed her to hug me.

The warmth of her body, the tenderness with which she held me, made me cry again. I ached, in both a physical sense and an emotional sense.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, my voice choked by tears and snot and emotion, "I'm sorry… how embarrassing."

Mrs. Angello pulled away from me, and much like her son did, she gently brushed hair away from my eyes. "You are entitled, Teresa," she said softly, "what happened to you is something a teenage girl should never have to go through." She tenderly wiped the tears from my face and continued, "Do you want something to drink?"

I sat down at the kitchen table as she bustled around, getting drinks for all of us. I scrubbed at my eyes and took a few calming breaths. That was the last time I would cry today.

Mrs. Angello set a glass of iced tea in front of me. I smiled gratefully and took a sip. "Thank you."

"It's nothing," she said, waving me away. "Now what's going on with you? Have you been speaking to the children's services?"

"Unfortunately, yes." I fixed my gaze onto the tabletop, avoiding both of their eyes. "I've got no relatives here in Boston, so Paulie…" I looked up at him and raised my eyebrows - did he want to tell his mother about our plan?

"Mom," he began, "would you mind if Teresa stayed with us for a while? Or maybe, for a long while?"

_Way to be articulate, buddy._

"Of course Teresa can stay here!" his mother exclaimed. "What kind of a person do you think I am? She can have Jonas's old room. Don't worry," she added, turning her brown eyes on me, "I'll change the sheets and spray some air freshener - you know how boys are."

A giggle escaped and I had to hold myself back from bursting into uncontrollable, manic laughter. Jeez, my emotions need to take a vacation. _I_ need to take a vacation. Far, far away from here.

I spent the day with Paulie, just hanging out, keeping my mind off things. We watched mindless reality shows, ate junk food until our stomachs hurt and talked about starting our junior year in September. Well, _he_ talked about starting his junior year - I was simply reminded of the fact that I would be going to M.I.T. in the fall, and thus started the chain of thoughts I'd been trying to avoid since the episode with Paulie's mother in the kitchen.

Thankfully this time, I didn't cry.

By eight o'clock, I was exhausted. I asked Mrs. Angello if I could go to bed.

"Go right ahead," she said, "I changed the sheets and sprayed some Oust. Sleep well, sweetheart." She smiled kindly at me.

I said goodnight to Paulie and then escaped to Jonas's room. It was nearly unrecognizable - all of Jonas's posters had been taken down and the sheets were a bright pink; definitely not something that Jonas would have in his room. Gwen's carrying case was in the corner, along with my skateboard and my duffel bag.

After washing up and changing into pajamas, I collapsed onto the bed. I was physically exhausted (and my ribs were on fire) but my mind was working a million miles a minute. New invention ideas, flashes of the accident, worries about the future, and wondering how long the Angellos will be able to stand me filled my mind. I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable.

I heard Paulie's heavy footfalls on the stairs around eleven, and the quieter footsteps of his mother and father as they retired around midnight.

By one AM, it seemed that my mind had tired itself out and I fell into a restless slumber.

**Thanks so much for reading! If you found it boring, I promise it'll pick up soon. (: -Jay**


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you may recognize, for they (unfortunately) belong to Marvel/Paramount.

Author's Note: Thank you to all of the reviewers! Please enjoy chapter two.

Two;

_"Mom, this is an amazing opportunity!" I said, gazing down at the acceptance letter in my hands. "Me, going to M.I.T.? It's incredible!" I glanced at her and saw that her face was set into a stony mask. "Mom?"_

_"I don't want you to go," she said quietly._

_"Why not?" I demanded immediately, my temper flaring. _

_Mom clutched the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She took a deep shaky breath and replied, "You're too young. You should be out with your friends, having fun, not going to college!"_

_"My only friend is Paulie," I said waspishly, "and he'd be happy for me."_

_She shook her head. "No, Teresa. I don't want you to go."_

"_That's ridiculous!" I snapped, "Any mother would be extremely proud of her daughter if she got into the most prestigious technical school in the country-"_

"_I _am_ proud of you!" she said sharply. Her voice had raised a note, almost reached the point of being shrill. "Why wouldn't I be proud of you? It's just - you are too young. At your age, your only worries should be boys, makeup, and _high_ school, not college!"_

_I was about to reply when I saw two bright lights careening towards us out of the darkness. "Mom!" I shouted, "Look out!"_

_There was a scream, the sound of crunching, twisting, shattering metal and glass. Something smashed into my side and splitting pain filled my torso. I felt something trickle down the side of my face, but I was too scared to open my eyes and see what it was. _

_My mother's scream filled me. "TERESA!"_

I jerked awake, staring into the semi-darkness of a strange room. I was tangled in bright pink sheets, limbs thrown haphazardly in every direction and I was lying on my back, staring at the ceiling.

My first thought: _Where the fuck am I?_

It was almost as surreal as waking up in the hospital. Strange room, strange people, lots of strange beeping noises; but unlike the hospital, I realized where I was a lot sooner. I was in Jonas's room at Paulie's house, and according to the clock on the nightstand, it was six thirty-one in the morning.

I groaned and rolled over. There was no way I was getting any more sleep that night; or early morning, whatever. I buried my face into the strange pillow and wished for home.

About an hour later, I decided that lying around wouldn't help me. I untangled myself from the sheets and put my feet on the hardwood floor. I padded over to Gwen's case and let her out; she blinked a few times and beeped at me.

"Hello," I whispered, "did you sleep well?"

She beeped and rolled back and forth a few times on the palm of my hand. I walked over to the bed and set Gwen down on the sheets. She zoomed around in circles for a moment and snuggled into the sheets. She peered up at me with luminescent yellow eyes.

"I know it's weird," I said, "but get used to it. We're going to be here for a while."

Gwen beeped and made a motion similar to shrugging.

Since she was my first invention, she didn't have an adequate vocal system. She could only communicate through beeping and motions, which could become annoying after awhile, but she was my last connection to life before the Incident.

And since she didn't have a vocal system, she wasn't really a thrill to talk to, especially when you were trying to be quiet. I got up and dug through my duffel bag until I came across my design notebook. I grabbed my sketching pencil and then settled back onto the bed. I turned the bedside light on and flipped to the sketch of the V6 hybrid racing engine I was currently designing.

I buried myself into adjusting the design, adding a little more to it, and erasing anything that seemed cumbersome compared to the new additions I was making. I was so immersed in the design that I didn't hear Paulie knock and let himself in at around nine.

"Hey," he said, making me look up suddenly, "how long have you been awake?"

"Oh." I glanced at the clock. "Two and a half hours." I put my notebook down and smiled bleakly at him. "Did I miss breakfast?"

He nodded and sat down on the end of the bed. "Mom's probably going to send up a tray for you or something," he replied, "I told her you were still sleeping."

I sighed. An immense wave of gratefulness flooded me and I fought the urge to hug him. "Thanks for letting me stay here," I mumbled. I avoided his gaze and stared at the bedspread. "You and your family don't have to let me."

"Don't be stupid," he said, "we're glad to have you here. And keep you." He paused for a moment, as if he were struggling to find the words to continue. "I don't think I'd be able to handle my best friend moving halfway across the country."

I smiled. A full on, face-splitting smile. Paulie would always be around when I needed him. This time, I did hug him, my notebook caught up between the sheets and our bodies. Risking sounding like a total emotional wreck and/or overly sensitive chick that needs some meds, I genuinely felt marginally happier in his arms. He was warm, secure, and strong. He was a rock in a very turbulent ocean.

God, could I _get_ any cornier?

I let go first and we smiled at each other before I got out from under the sheets. "I'm starving," I announced. My stomach rumbled loudly as if to punctuate my statement.

We went downstairs and joined Mr. and Mrs. Angello at the breakfast table. They were clearing up, but there was still a place set for me. Another wave of appreciation flooded me and I reminded myself to ask if there was anything I could do around their house to repay them: perhaps fix a buggy computer or repair a car.

"Good morning, Teresa," greeted Mr. Angello from where he was scraping the last of the eggs from his plate onto his fork, "did you sleep alright?"

"Yeah," I lied smoothly, "like a baby."

He smiled and gestured to the seat across from him. "How are you doing?"

The dreaded question, though not exactly obvious, had been spoken.

I shrugged. "Okay," I lied again. "It's been rough."

Mr. Angello nodded, and didn't push the matter further. He seemed to notice that I didn't want to talk about it. He stood and kissed his wife on the cheek before placing his plate into the sink. "I'm off to work," he said, "have a nice day everyone." He threw a pointed glance at Paulie. "Stay out of trouble."

"Yeah, Dad," replied Paulie through a mouthful of eggs, "_you_ stay out of trouble."

Mr. Angello chuckled, squeezed his son's shoulder and raised a hand in farewell to me. "'Bye, Teresa. Keep Paul in line, now."

I granted him a smile. "Will do, Mr. A."

Paulie rolled his eyes at me and shoveled more eggs into his mouth.

After a quiet, very uneventful breakfast, I forced myself to get dressed and avoid the solitude of Jonas's room. Instead, Paulie and I went rolling around the streets of the neighborhood on our skateboards and visited our favorite coffee shop, The Java Bean.

Once we settled into our favorite booth with tall plastic cups full of iced coffee in front of us, Paulie said, "So. Did you really sleep alright last night?"

"No." I sipped my coffee thoughtfully, and then continued, "You're really good at knowing when I'm lying. Are you a mind reader or something? I always thought that my lying skills were commendable."

He snorted. "You have the lousiest poker face in the world," he replied, "when you lie, your nostrils flare and your left eyebrow raises a little. It's a lot easier to tell you're lying when you're…" he trailed off and quickly fixed his gaze onto the table, "…under stress."

"Paulie," I said immediately, "don't worry about offending me or anything, because you're not. Just pretend like nothing happened."

"But it _did_ happen, Terry," he replied, voice hard, "and you can't pretend like it never happened. _I _can't pretend that it didn't happen. You cried yesterday when my mom hugged you, okay? If you avoid it, then your emotions will just build and build until you explode." He paused. "And I don't want to pick up your tiny pieces."

I stared at him, surprised at this mini-outburst. I struggled for some words. "But who else would put me back together?"

He rolled his eyes. "The idea is to keep you from exploding in the first place."

I tapped my fingers on the tabletop and stared out the window. People walked by; some strolling, some fast-paced, completely unaware to the grief of the rest of the world. I took a long gulp from my iced coffee and enjoyed the numbing sensation as it traveled down.

"Look," said Paulie, "you're allowed to grieve. You can't just push this away."

"I'm not pushing this away!" I snapped. My temper flared suddenly, and I felt a wave of annoyance towards him. "Do you really think I'm that emotionally unsound? Maybe this is just the way I deal with things - by myself, on the inside."

Paulie nodded, but avoided my eyes. He sighed. "You know I'm here if you need me," he said after a while, "you already know that."

"I'm not going to let this come between our friendship, okay?" I replied, "So don't get all depressed and moody like me. I need you to be happy, maybe even so annoyingly cheery that I might want to punch you in the face. I'm the storm cloud; you're the happy ball of sunshine. Let's not shake the status quo, yeah?"

"And my mom might not be able to handle two unhappy teenagers in the house at once," he replied with a laugh.

We touched our coffees together and drank to our agreement.

The funeral was as devastating as I knew it was going to be. I was a mess the entire way through; tears, hiccupping, there was snot everywhere and I could barely hold myself together as my mother's friends went up to speak about her. I was a pile of mushiness in the first pew. I went through so many tissues they had formed a little mountain beside me.

Paulie and his family sat beside me the whole time. He held my hand and gave me tissues when I needed them. And when we left the church, he practically had to hold me upright so I could walk. If this wasn't expressing my emotions, I didn't know what was.

The worst part was when they lowered the casket into the ground. I was holding Paulie's hand so tightly; the tips of his fingers were slowly turning purple. He didn't complain, though, and I was thoroughly thankful that he didn't say anything.

Afterwards, we went back to my house. The caseworker was there to meet Paulie's family as I managed to gather myself in my mother's room.

It smelled like her, I realized. The entire room smelled of lavender and Clorox - a weird combination, but it was distinctly her own. I wanted to flop on the unmade bed and just soak in all of my mother's scent and presence. I didn't, and just looked around the room.

Mom wasn't a neat person, but she wasn't a full-out slob, either. She kept things organized but she wasn't a neat freak. Her room was enjoyably cluttered, with knick-knacks and picture frames lining the dresser by the mirror and piles of clothes on the chair in the corner. The room looked lived in, and the fact that it wouldn't be lived in anymore made my heart ache.

I turned to the dresser and glanced at myself in the mirror. My eyes seemed permanently rimmed with red; I was pale and thinner than I remembered. The black clothing I was wearing did nothing to liven up my complexion. I sniffed, glancing down at the top of the dresser. I gently touched the caps of her perfumes and ran my fingertips over her makeup, and I saw with a pang that her foundation was uncapped, like she had been called away from it while touching up her makeup. I quickly capped it, as if she would come back and find it.

Something white caught my eye. I reached over and grabbed it - a letter, and a picture of me. The picture fluttered to the floor and I picked it up. A recent photograph, it showed me on a park bench, notebook poised on my lap, V6 engine design visible. I was smiling broadly at the camera, probably mid-laugh.

The letter had my mother's handwriting across it - _duh, it was in her room, whose handwriting would it be?_ - and it began like this:

"_**Dear Tony, **_

_**You probably don't remember me. It's been quite a long time since we last saw each other and now that you're this famous billionaire weapons developer-"**_

Wait. What?

My mom knew Tony Stark? That dude was my idol, even though he's a womanizing, war profiteering jerk face. He was a technological genius - he graduated summa cum laude from M.I.T., he designed all of these revolutionary weapons and robots, and to top it all off, he was Iron Man. He was a frigging superhero - how much more awesome could you get?

"_**-it's more than likely that you don't recollect a Boston University education major who won you over with tons of compliments and smiles. My name is Alana Walsch, and fifteen years ago you and I had a one night stand."**_

My eyes widened as I sank down onto the bed. My mother had a one-night stand with _TONY STARK?_ My head was spinning as I read that line over and over. A one night stand? With Tony Stark? That hardly seemed possible, let alone plausible. Mom didn't seem to be the type to just sleep with random guys, especially richer-than-God assholes like Stark.

**"****_And as a result of this one night stand, I became pregnant. The girl in the picture is your daughter, Tony. I'm sure of it - I have never had sex with another man since then, and you were the only man I had ever slept with."_**

Holy. Shit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you may recognize, for they (unfortunately) belong to Marvel/Paramount. **

**Author's Note: Thanks to the reviewers! On to chapter three! (Longer A/N at bottom.)**

**Three;**

"This is unreal," said Paulie a few days later when I showed him the letter. I had smuggled it out along with the picture, the rest of my inventions, and a bottle of my mother's lavender perfume, which was currently stashed away in one of my socks.

Paulie laughed and shook his head in disbelief. "_You_ are Tony Stark's daughter? No way." He shook his head again. "That explains your freaky genius tech skills."

I tucked my legs underneath me and read the letter again. I still couldn't believe it, but what Paulie said had a grain of truth in it. Where else could I have gotten my love for fixing technological things and designing engines and robots? Not only that, but where could I have gotten the intelligence to do so? My mother was a kindergarten teacher and I'm pretty sure she didn't secretly design racing engines in the basement.

"You sure your mom wasn't, you know, drunk that night?" asked Paulie thoughtfully, "I mean, she could've been so shattered that she _thought_ she was sleeping with Tony Stark."

"It's a possibility," I replied with a shrug, "she was a crazy college girl back then." I leaned against the headboard of Jonas's bed and gazed at the ceiling. "But there's also the possibility that she _did_ sleep with Tony Stark."

We sat in silence for a few moments before Paulie said, "But what are the possibilities that the dude she slept with had the same intelligence that Tony has? I mean, there is only one Tony Stark in the entire world, and what're the odds that another super genius was in the bar with your mom that night?"

"You're right," I said quietly, "there's the option that I'm just a tech nerd by chance. Bill Gates' parents were normal, weren't they?"

Paulie sat up, and his sudden movement rocked the bed and startled me. "Think of it this way, though," he said, "you know who your father is! Don't tell me you haven't been wondering where the other half of your DNA comes from, because you have. And especially now, after the Incident."

"We were just talking about how there's a possibility that he's _not _my father," I said flatly, "and now you're all like, 'Now you know where the other 24 chromosomes came from!'"

"Don't speak bio at me," he snapped, "science is your strong point."

I rolled my eyes and my lips twitched up into a smile. "But anyway, I think that he is." I dropped my voice and gazed down at the letter again, taking in my mother's neat, sprawling cursive. "It makes sense… a little."

"Hang on," said Paulie suddenly, getting up from the bed, "I want to see something." He hurried out of the room, and after a few minutes, returned with a piece of paper clutched in his hand. He settled himself back onto the bed and stared at the piece of paper before looking back at me.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Looking for similarities in your appearance," he replied simply. "Yeah, I can see it a little. You have the same nose and eye-shape. And the same lips." He studied the photograph of Tony Stark for a few moments and then glanced up at me. "Smile!" he commanded.

"I- okay." I shot him my brightest, cheesiest grin.

"Eh." He kept looking back and forth between the photograph and me before continuing, "Nah, your smile is your mother's. And I can't see if he has a cleft chin because of his beard, and you don't have one, so…"

I let him ramble on for a few more minutes before I interrupted him. "You know this really doesn't prove anything?" I said, "Only a DNA test could truly tell me if he was my dad."

Paulie put the photograph down. "Well, you're not going to get that."

"I'm aware," I sighed.

"I wonder what he's like in person," said Paulie softly. "Do you think he's a jerk when there are no cameras around?"

I shrugged. "Maybe. He never came across to me as a guy who changes his personality for the public."

We sat in silence, left to our own thoughts. I wondered how this could even be possible; Tony Stark could never be my father. It was like telling some mediocre actress that some kind of phenomenal actor is her father. I couldn't be Tony Stark's daughter simply because the man was a demigod - he was untouchable, unreachable, and so freaking intimidating that if I did get the chance to tell him, I would probably run away and hide before I even uttered a word.

I picked up the letter again. I didn't read the words - I just looked at Mom's cursive. She had nice handwriting. It was hardly elegant, hardly calligraphy, but it was pretty. A cross between print and cursive, like she couldn't make a decision. I imagined her warm hand moving across the paper, probably by lamplight in her room when I was asleep or secretly working on my engine design by moonlight. I wondered what she was thinking while she wrote it. Did she remember what that night was like? Did she remember the sound of Tony's voice? Did she think about what an impact this news would have me? On Tony himself, if he believed it?

But he never got the letter, because she never had the chance to send it out.

I was torn from my thoughts by Paulie saying, "I wonder why your mom didn't just email him. Why a tedious letter? That takes time and money."

With an eye roll, I set the letter back down on the bed sheets and gazed at him. "She wrote it in a letter because it's more personal," I said, "an email is cold. You don't tell someone they have a daughter through an email. The black type is just so… impersonal."

"How deep of you," replied Paulie with one eyebrow raised.

"But what would've happened if he _did_ get this letter?" I said, thinking aloud, "Would he just ignore it or come out to see my mom, maybe even remember her? What if he met me? Would he know I was his daughter on sight, or would he need to get to know me first?"

"Teresa!" said Paulie, "You're rambling."

"Uh-huh," I said distractedly. "It can't be that hard to guess that I'm his daughter, after all, you said it yourself - we have the same freaky genius skills and a desire to design things and invent them. I was - am - accepted into M.I.T. and I'm only fifteen years old… if he graduated from M.I.T. at seventeen, he was probably around my age, too, and with his intelligence he probably flew through the curriculum and that's why he graduated summa cum laude so young-"

"Teresa!" shouted Paulie, effectively interrupting me. I stopped and stared at him, but my thoughts were still whirling around in my head like a tornado.

"God, I hate it when you do that," he muttered after a while, "you just go on and on and you don't stop."

I barely heard him. My thoughts were wrapped around me so tight I couldn't hear a thing. What if I sent the letter? What if I finished my mom's job and found out if Tony Stark was actually my father?

And then, the craziest idea in the history of crazy ideas hit me like a brick wall. What if I went to California and met him?

I told Paulie this idea and he stared at me, dumbfounded. When he recovered from his shock, he said, "You do you realize you're talking about meeting this billionaire weapons manufacturer as if you're going to bump into him on the street, right?"

"No, no, that's not what I'm talking about." I shifted my position, too excited about this idea to sit still. "What would happen if I went to California and spent some time with him?"

Paulie just stared at me. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked. He reached up and felt my forehead with the back of his hand. "You can't just waltz into Stark Industries and be like, 'Hey, guess what? Tony Stark's my dad!' Nobody will believe you."

"I know that!" I said indignantly. "That's why I _won't_ just waltz into SI and announce that I'm Tony Stark's daughter. I want to know what he's like first. I'll do it on the sneak."

While Paulie continued to gape at me with that dumbfounded expression on his face, my mind whirled with ideas and plans. What would be the easiest way to get into Stark Industries without raising any strange questions or suspicions? How could I get on the inside without calling attention to myself?

I leapt up and started pacing. "It's got to be something to do with M.I.T.," I mumbled, "because that's what we have in common. If he sees that I'm from M.I.T., it might make things easier. It won't look so suspicious."

"I can't believe I'm going to help you with this," said Paulie, "but what if you said you had to visit Tony Stark because of a program that M.I.T. wants you to do? Like if you went to his house and learned the tricks of the trade?"

"An apprenticeship, almost?" I asked him, turning around. I liked this idea. If I was from a program from M.I.T. that required him to teach me some tricks of the trade, that was definitely a way to get inside without being asked stupid questions.

Paulie was shaking his head in disbelief. "But how are you going to do it?"

I thought for a few moments. "We need to send a letter first," I decided, "one that tells him about the program and that I'm the one he has to teach. It has to ask him if he wants to do it." I started pacing again, thoroughly excited. "We'll make up a department."

"You're going to make up an entire _department_?" asked Paulie, flabbergasted. "Teresa, come on, you can't just make up a whole department. What if they look into it and find that it doesn't exist?"

"Then I'll just tell them the truth," I said, shrugging. "Or maybe I'll just make up a part of the department, like the people you send letters to and the curator, stuff like that. Easy to remember stuff."

I went to the desk that was pushed against the wall and started looking for some paper. When I found some, I grabbed a pencil from the cup near the mirror and started scribbling down names and occupations - the fake names and occupations of the new Student Apprenticeships for Enrichment Department.

Then, I began to write the letter that Tony Stark (or probably Pepper Potts,) would read. Peter was still on the bed, reading the list of names that I handed him.

"Flora Wintergarden?" he said, reading the curator's name as if it was some strange, poisonous plant. "That doesn't sound convincing."

"If J.K. Rowling could make 'Severus Snape' sound convincing, 'Flora Wintergarden' will be too," I replied absentmindedly as I scratched out a few weak sentences. I drummed my fingers impatiently on the desk, trying to think up some more words.

_Bring it down a notch,_ advised a voice in the back of my head (I'm not crazy.) _You're jumping into this too quickly. Think it out before you get yourself into a lot of trouble._

My conscience - or whatever you call it - was right. If I carried on like this, rushing into sending this letter and creating this department, I would miss things and holes would be created, allowing room for errors and possible disastrous outcomes. The mathematical side of my brain began to overrule the emotional side, and suddenly I was sitting in the desk chair, staring off into space as I worked this whole thing out.

After about an hour and a half of intense planning and outlining, the entire plan sat in front of me on crinkled lined paper and in a pile of eraser shavings.

"Wow," I said, setting down my pencil and taking a deep breath. "I need a cigarette."

I laughed at my own joke, but Paulie didn't. I looked 'round and saw him stretched out on Jonas's bed with one arm over his eyes, asleep. I rolled my eyes. Paulie was famous for his ability to fall asleep anywhere he wanted to. He once fell asleep during gym class, tucked away behind the bleachers. He didn't even notice the bell had rung until I had to find him and tell him to get the hell up.

I stood up and walked over to the bed, smiling to myself. Instead of shaking him awake, like any normal person would do, I bent down towards his exposed ear and screamed, "_Paulie!_"

"WHAT?" He jumped violently, nearly knocking himself off the bed. He rubbed his eyes for a few seconds and then glared at me blearily. "Teresa! You're crazy," he said, pretending to be angry. "Why'd you wake me up?"

"We've got business to take care of," I replied simply. I went back to over to the desk and handed him the letter. "Read that, and tell if me it's alright."

Paulie's eyes flicked back and forth as he read the letter, a scowl of concentration deepening with each line. He read it twice, then placed it down on the bed. "Well," he said slowly, "it looks official enough. I think you've got a shot with this."

I smiled triumphantly. I may have lost a parent - but I may gain one back in the near future.

* * *

**Longer A/N: Wow, this took me a really long time to write, which I apologize for. I sort of lost the inspiration to continue with this, but luckily it has returned. This chapter feels like a crappy filler to me, but that's probably just because of my insecurities haha. Sorry again for the space between updates - hopefully things will pick up. Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews! I am in debt to you, wonderful readers.**


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